


Lead me wild to your dark roads

by greenapricot



Category: Lewis (TV), Shetland (TV)
Genre: Love Confesions (but not to each other), M/M, One Night Stand, Pining, gratuitous descriptions of the shetland landscape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29277309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenapricot/pseuds/greenapricot
Summary: “What brings you to Shetland?” Duncan asks when he sits down opposite James with two pints of local ale. It’s such an obvious pick-up line James can’t help but smile. Duncan smiles back, eyes crinkling at the corners. His smile is warm and inviting; mischievous and merry, as if he’s up to something and wants James to join in. James is a bit startled to find that he would very much like to.
Relationships: Duncan Hunter & Jimmy Perez, Duncan Hunter/Jimmy Perez, James Hathaway & Robert Lewis, James Hathaway/Duncan Hunter, James Hathaway/Robert Lewis
Comments: 46
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this has been a labor of love which began out of a discord convo, some unknown length of time ago, speculating about what if James Hathaway went on holiday to Shetland after the end of Lewis and had a fling with Duncan Hunter. It should make perfect sense if you've seen Lewis and not Shetland. But, though it takes place in Shetland and I've tried to include enough Lewis backstory so it does makes sense, I'm not 100% sure it works as well the other way.
> 
> Takes place after Lewis S9 and sometime nebulously during Shetland S3 (the timelines don't match up exactly and I decided it doesn't matter). The first Shetland character shows up a little more than halfway through the first chapter, and the explicit rating comes into it in chapter 2. 
> 
> A million thanks to Jack for the beta, Britpick, and all around amazingness. Any remaining strangeness is all on me.
> 
> Title from Headlights on Dark Roads by Snow Patrol

Two months to the day after James Hathaway watches Robbie Lewis and Laura Hobson board an aeroplane that will take them to the other side of the world, he gets on a train heading north. Then another train. Then a third. Then an overnight ferry. Flying likely would have been less expensive, it definitely would have taken less time, but if he can book a flight to Shetland what’s to stop him booking one to New Zealand? And he can’t do that. 

Oxford is nothing but ceaseless reminders of Robbie’s absence, a constant bombardment of places the two of them have been together. Colleges they’ve confronted suspects in, streets they’ve walked along, pubs where they’ve shared pints, benches they’ve sat on, and the office they once shared that is now James’ alone. A minefield of memories that are impossible to avoid. 

If he could rid himself of those memories, perhaps the ache that’s been growing in his chest since Robbie left would ease. But without the memories what does James have left? It was enough, very nearly enough, to see Robbie every day, to work with him, to be his sergeant and then a DI alongside him, to sit on the sofa next to him and share pints and takeaway at Robbie’s flat in the evenings after work. To have a place in his life. It was enough to finally, finally, have something good, even if the shape of it was never going to be quite what James wanted. It’s not as if he expected happiness. He’d hoped for it, he’d wished for it, he’d longed for it, even, in his weaker moments, but he never expected it.

That James is in love with Robbie Lewis isn’t in question. What he’s going to do about it is.

He’s carried this love for so long he’s grown used to the weight of it. It’s always been heavy and a bit cumbersome, but far too precious to put down. He’s learned to work around it, to carry it while he carries other things, to brace himself against his burden so it doesn’t overwhelm him. But with Robbie gone it’s become a dead weight, pulling him down, keeping him from moving forward in a way it never has before. He needs somewhere safe to lay his burden down, somewhere far from familiar streets and the thousand tiny pinpricks of remembrance taunting him at every turn. Robbie went south, so James goes north. 

From the moment he steps onto the first train, things will be different. If he thinks the thought long enough and hard enough, it may even become true. 

There is a pleasant symmetry to the fact that his journey over land and sea takes almost the same amount of time as Robbie’s journey had by air. Nearly twenty-four hours of travelling across the country by train and ferry and his own two feet. Watching the scenery unfold and change; cities and villages and countryside, the rhythm of the train, the edges of fields and forests sliding by out the window, gardens that back up against the tracks, intimate glimpses into people’s lives that can’t be seen from the motorway, and certainly not from an aeroplane.

It is a penance of sorts, crossing the distance slowly, feeling the passing of time and the passing of miles. He can have his Shetland walking holiday, he can take himself off somewhere new, somewhere he can exorcise himself of so many years of wishing for something that was never going to happen. That’s what he wants. It is. But he has to get there first. 

The upper deck of the Aberdeen-Lerwick ferry commands an excellent view of the city; stone houses along the quay, distant spires of churches, commercial buildings, and something castle-like beyond. He could spend the night here in Aberdeen, visit some of the churches and take tomorrow’s ferry, he has no time constraints other than the ones he’s imposed on himself. But he’s half afraid he’ll lose his momentum if he doesn’t keep moving.

The wind picks up as the ferry leaves the harbour, the view growing steadily more sea and less land as they pass the breakwater. By the time the sun sets, there is no land in sight and James feels something unclench in his chest; the ache doesn’t lessen, the weight either, but it’s shifted somewhat. 

He can only imagine how many stars there must be out on the open water above the lights of the ferry that never get switched off. 

James sleeps surprisingly well in the not quite long enough bunk in the complete darkness of his windowless cabin; the rocking of the boat, an echo of the rhythm of the train, lulling him to sleep. He wakes with only enough time to gather his things and disembark, no time for coffee or breakfast or even a shower. 

His first glimpse of Lerwick is a smattering of low buildings around the harbour surrounded by the hills he’ll be hiking for the next two weeks. Clouds swirl past overhead, spurred on by the sea breeze, breaking apart into occasional bright spots of blue sky. The narrow stretch of sea between Mainland and Bressay is calm, the rocking of the night’s crossing no more.

When James enters the enclosed space of the tiny loo in the cafe where he stops for breakfast, he can still feel the motion of the sea. Thirteen hours on the ferry and his body has adjusted to life at sea, prepared to continue on indefinitely. If only he could adjust to the lack of certain former detective inspectors as quickly. On the bus, with views out the window to the horizon, the sea motion fades and he is a terrestrial being again. 

The bus takes him out of Lerwick, the road veering inland amongst the hills, past the occasional village, then along the coast again, clouds shrouding the highest hills. Every direction is shades of grey and green and brown, the subtle colours soothing to his travel-weary eyes. Heather and grass-covered hills rise up toward the centre of the island to the right, crisscrossed with stone walls and dotted with cottages and white polka dots of sheep. The land rolls down to the sea to the left, offering glimpses of beachy coves and dramatic cliffs. Before James knows it, he is standing at the bus shelter opposite his rented cottage, wind buffeting him as it blows in off the sea, itching to walk off into the countryside.

He stands a moment and gazes up at the hill behind the cottage, watches as the clouds blow away from the top, giving him a momentary glimpse of almost blue sky before everything is cloaked in grey again. St Ninian’s Isle is somewhere on the other side of that hill, a not unreasonable day’s walk. It’s still early, and after twenty-four hours of trains and ferry and the bus, he’s more than ready to stretch his legs.

James keys in the code for the lockbox and lets himself into the cottage. It looks exactly as it had in the photos; low ceiling, thick walls painted off-white, deep window sills with wood accents, and a peat burner across from the sofa. Quaint and cosy with views down to the sea out the front windows. The perfect home base for a walking holiday. He drops his rucksack and guitar on the sofa, locks the door behind him and heads up the gravel lane behind the cottage. 

As he climbs he realises he’s left his maps—paper, in deference to the spottiness of mobile signal—and Shetland walking guide in his rucksack. He keeps going anyway. He’s done his research and pored over the maps enough on the ferry to know the general lay of this part of the land. If the clouds continue to clear, the apex of this hill should give him a view to the other side of Mainland. 

When he reaches the end of the lane he looks around—not even a sheep to witness his passing—and climbs over the stile in front of him, continuing up the hill through the short grass. It’s not a path exactly, but he knows where he wants to go. Coming to Shetland was a whim born out of the need for something to change; the notion of walking off into the hills in pursuit of a view he’s not entirely sure he’ll be able to see seems a fitting beginning to his stay. 

The higher he climbs the stronger the wind and the more uneven the ground. By the time he crests the top of the hill, James is beginning to wish for a jumper or a warmer jacket. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and pulls up his hood as a great gust of wind parts the clouds overhead, treating him to bright sun and blue sky. The view is well worth the chill. The land slopes away on all sides, rolling down to the sea with no trees to interrupt the vista. To the west, just visible, is St Ninian’s beach, a strip of bright sand between stretches of blue-green sea and the isle rising up beyond. It’s clear, standing here with only the barest signs of human habitation for as far as he can see, why Shetland is considered one of the last remaining wildernesses of Britain. 

When the clouds begin to close in again, James continues down the other side of the hill. He passes through a stile; ponies come up to greet him, nuzzling their soft noses into his hand even though he has nothing to offer them. He follows a lane for a bit, passes through a cattle gate—sheep eyeing him suspiciously—then heads off across open country again when the lane turns to skirt the coast. He steps over another fence when he comes to it, and the fence after that, and then there’s nothing between him and the sea and St Ninian’s but soggy grass and the steady wind. 

It starts to rain as he reaches the lane behind his cottage that evening. He made it to St Ninian’s and back without a map and is feeling rather pleased with himself. James stops for a moment, turning his face up to the sky and lets the rain hit his eyelids and lips and cheeks in tiny cold pinpricks. The rain feels like a welcome, like a hello. James smiles in spite of himself. 

“Hello, Shetland,” he says out loud to the rain and the hills. 

When he returns to the cottage he’s cold and damp, muddy and footsore, and more at ease than he has been since Robbie left. It’s not until he’s had the thought that he realises this is the first time he’s thought of Robbie since he set off on his walk. 

Sleep comes more quickly and soundly beneath the soft, white linens of the cottage’s cosy bed than it had the night before in his tiny ferry cabin. 

The next day, James wakes early and catches the bus to Lerwick. He buys as many supplies from the supermarket as he can carry, then stops at a shop selling fine Shetland wool jumpers. Even with two shirts and a fleece under his rain jacket, the chill of the near-constant wind still gets through. He chooses a jumper in a medium grey that echoes the clouds hanging over the harbour, with a yoke in a Fair Isle pattern of blues and teal and cream which reminds him of the water surrounding the sandy isthmus that leads to St Ninian’s Isle. James pulls the jumper on before leaving the shop. The rest of the walk to the bus stop is much warmer.

James wakes when he wakes and he leaves when he leaves, letting each day’s destination be determined by the bus timetable and when he happens to finish breakfast. He has no obligations, no set schedule, and nowhere he needs to be until his return ferry ticket, only a loose list of places he’d like to see. Some days he walks miles to get to the beginning of a route, some days the bus leaves him steps from the starting point. After sinking into mud up to his knees twice on his second day out, he learns to follow sheep tracks to stay clear of the bogs. 

On the third day, James leaves his mobile in the cottage, taking only his maps and guide book. The knowledge that no one in the world knows exactly where he is and that no one can contact him is exhilarating. 

Shetland’s landscape is magnificent at every turn, as captivating under low, grey clouds and mist as it is under bright sun and blue sky. He walks across peat and heather hills and along cliffs to beaches with water bright, aqua blue, and so inviting he’s tempted to strip down and go for a swim. Some days he sits and watches the same view for hours as clouds roll past, relishing the ever-changing subtle colours of the hills and the sea in the shifting light. Some days the clouds are so thick he can hear the sea below him as he walks along a cliff edge though he can see nothing but a thick blanket of misty grey. 

James walks and he thinks and sometimes he thinks of Robbie, but more often he doesn’t; a welcome change from his days in Oxford since Robbie’s departure. The thoughts, when they do come, settle into background noise, twining together with the sounds of the wind and sea. The weight of them is lighter, manageable, not something that threatens to drag him under.

He doesn’t take photos. He’s not here to document things, to make a record. He’s here to immerse himself in the landscape, to try to be in the moment he’s living as he’s living it, not three steps ahead or behind; no planning, no overthinking. He is surprised to find he’s more successful than not. Walking out in the wind and the weather leaves him pleasantly knackered at the end of the day, errant thoughts banished, mind filled with the beauty of the sights and sounds of the landscape, and content.

He wouldn’t go so far as to say his days are blissful—bliss is not something James is sure he’d be able to hold onto even if he achieved it—but it’s not far off. There is a comfort in walking out in the chill and the damp when it’s by choice. The mist and rain and the clouds hanging onto the hills above are an unfamiliar landscape that is quickly becoming familiar, warming his heart even as the wet chills his body. Some days he stays out until his jeans are soaked through, knowing that the peat burner is there waiting for him in the cottage. 

James eats porridge for breakfast, packs sandwiches for lunch, and cooks himself a hot dinner at the end of the day; one night he makes a roast, which feels incredibly decadent and fills the cottage with beguiling smells. He warms his hands in front of the peat burner in the evening, chasing off the chill of the day, and plucks at his guitar in the radiating warmth. A song begins to form, echoing the rhythms of the sea and the wind and his booted feet stepping over stiles, around boggy patches, across stone, and onto shifting sand.

For days, he speaks to hardly anyone, only exchanging passing greetings with other walkers and the occasional person on the bus. Some of the other walkers would gladly strike up a conversation and walk with him, especially the others who are solitary. But he disentangles himself as quickly and politely as possible from the few people he meets. He’s enjoying the quiet. Just him and the seabirds and the landscape and the wind.

The song expands and contracts, it develops words to go with the tune. James finds himself humming as he walks, his fingers playing ghost chords in the air, memorising the pattern of them, looking forward to his return to the cottage and his guitar at the end of the day, but in no particular rush to get there. James is content. He could live like this for endless days, following the rhythm of the landscape and the weather. 

He makes it a week before he runs low on food. After so much time spent alone, stopping for provisions in Lerwick at the end of the day’s walk feels like entering another world; stone buildings and hard pavement under his boots, not cliffs scattered with seabirds and the give of peat; and people, in shops and on the streets, who he does his best to avoid.

A flyer on the door of a pub catches his eye on his way to the bus stop: Sunday Open Mic Nights, All Are Welcome. Today is Friday. He doesn’t intend to go.

* * *

Sunday evening, James returns to the cottage after another long satisfying, solitary day. He gets a fire going in the peat burner, showers in the too-short shower, and is warming himself by the fire while contemplating dinner when his eyes come to rest on his guitar. The song, which now has lyrics but no name, has grown and changed since it first appeared, coalescing into something he is rather proud of. Suddenly, the idea of playing it for an audience, far from anyone he knows, is very appealing.

According to the clock by the door, if he leaves immediately he’ll get to the pub just as the open mic night is beginning. He pulls on his one clean pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and his jumper, forgoing his still damp jacket, slings his guitar case over his shoulder, and arrives at the bus stop as the bus pulls up.

James finds a table at the back of the pub, orders a pint and a reestit mutton pie for dinner, and watches as a string of locals perform on the small raised platform that passes for a stage. As he’s contemplating a second pint, there is a lull in the steady stream of musicians stepping up onto the stage. Without thinking too much about it, James walks to the front of the room and steps up onto the platform himself. 

The song feels different played in front of an audience as if other people witnessing its existence have made it more real, more true. He lets himself get lost in the music, his fingers moving in familiar patterns across the guitar strings. When he finishes, he receives a round of hearty applause.

It’s the first time in years he’s performed without the band. It is exhilarating, liberating. He almost wishes he had another song to play. He returns to his corner table, tucks his guitar into its case and rests it against the wall next to him, feeling a welling up of affection for the instrument. Together they have created something beautiful.

The man who takes the stage after James is charming, all jokes and smiles and easy banter; entirely different to the quiet nods of hello and thank you that were all James managed while he was up there. He plays a jaunty tune that everyone sings along with, and then another with similar, almost danceable energy. He seems to know everyone in the pub, chatting with the people closest to the stage while he adjusts the tuning on his guitar between songs. James finds himself half wishing that he knew the man as well, that his welcoming smile might be focused on him. 

After his second song—which seems to be the going number, though James only played the one—a woman sitting at the table closest to the stage calls out something James doesn’t catch. The man laughs, his head thrown back, silver hair bright in the spotlight. He shakes his head, running his hand over his neatly trimmed grey beard, but then adjusts his tuning again and begins to play a hauntingly beautiful melancholy tune.

It is wholly different to the first two somewhat bawdy sing-alongs. The song has a melodic quality that is familiar and also not, the words are in a language James can’t understand, and the man’s voice is all the more captivating for it. When he finishes, he sits a moment, head bowed, hand resting on his guitar strings to silence them, as a hush falls over the room. James feels as if he’s been transported to a different place and time in the moment before the man raises his head, smiles a beguiling smile, and everyone begins to clap, the woman who requested the song loudest of all. She stands up and hugs him when he steps down off the platform, kissing him on the cheek, before stepping up onto the stage herself. 

Feeling oddly overwhelmed, James slips out the door for a cigarette. 

The wind that has been his constant companion out on the hills and cliffs greets him when he steps through the door, blowing down the narrow, stone lane outside the pub as he struggles to light his cigarette. He exhales and watches the smoke disburse in a gust, gazing up at the cloudy sky through the gap in the buildings. 

The door to the pub opens behind him. James steps out of the way, the wind a bit stronger out of the shadow of the building, and hunches down into his jumper for warmth. 

“That’s a terrible self-destructive habit,” says a voice from behind him. 

James makes a noncommittal noise around a drag of his cigarette. He doesn’t need strangers chiding him about his bad habits. He turns, ready to brush off whoever it is as he has with every other person who’s tried to strike up a conversation with him since he arrived in Shetland. His rebuff dies on his lips when he sees who it is. The silver-haired man with the charming smile and the haunting song is standing on the pavement behind him, hands in the pockets of his jeans and a smirk on his lips. Up close, he is even lovelier than he was on stage, his face younger looking than the silver hair would suggest. 

“Got one to spare?” he asks, with a wry twist to his lips.

Maybe he wasn’t chiding James so much as himself, then. James pulls a cigarette out of the pack and hands it over, watches as the man brings it to his lips. 

“Light?” 

James takes a step forward and bends down, the man leans in. They both cup their hands around the flame, sheltering it from the wind. He smells good, something earthy that mingles pleasantly with the scent of newly lit tobacco. 

“Cheers,” the man says, but doesn’t step away. He holds out his hand. “Duncan Hunter.”

“James Hathaway.” 

Duncan’s grip is firm, his hand warm. The handshake lasts a hair longer than an introductory handshake ought to. Duncan’s smile is even more beguiling up close than it was when he was on stage. James looks away, watches the clouds roll by overhead. They smoke in companionable silence.

“You leaving?” Duncan asks after a minute, gesturing to the guitar case slung over James’ shoulder. “The night’s still young.”

“No, I—” James pats the side of the case with the hand not holding his cigarette. “Never let your instrument out of your sight.” 

“Ah.” A look of understanding crosses Duncan’s face. 

“Had it nicked once,” James confesses. “Not going to let that happen again.”

“You got it back though.”

James smiles at the memory of Robbie tracking down the culprit online despite his avowed lack of computer skills. “Yeah, a friend of mine did.”

“That’s a good friend.”

James sighs and takes a last drag of his cigarette. “That he is.” 

“Seeing as you’re not leaving,” Duncan stubs out his cigarette even though it’s only half-smoked. “Buy you a drink?”

This is the longest conversation James has had since he arrived in Shetland and the first one he hasn’t felt the urge to get out of immediately. He hadn’t intended to leave yet, but he could. He played his song, he did what he came here to do. He could simply walk away, get the next bus back to the cottage, but he finds he doesn’t want to. The idea of sitting across from those smiling eyes and drinking another pint is rather appealing. 

“Why not?” James follows Duncan inside. 

James isn’t sure he’s ever felt as comfortable anywhere as Duncan looks leaning on the bar flirting with a blonde woman sitting on a nearby stool while he waits for their drinks.

“What brings you to Shetland?” Duncan asks when he sits down opposite James with two pints of local ale. It’s such an obvious pick-up line James can’t help but smile. Duncan smiles back, eyes crinkling at the corners. His smile is warm and inviting; mischievous and merry, as if he’s up to something and wants James to join in. James is a bit startled to find that he would very much like to. 

He doesn’t have a good answer to Duncan’s question, not one that he wants to share with a stranger, anyway, no matter how charming. 

“Change of scenery,” James says before the question hangs in the air too long.

Duncan gives James a look that suggests he knows full well there’s more to it than that. “How’s the scenery treating you?”

“Pretty well.” James doesn’t do this; chatting to attractive strangers in pubs. He’s no good at it, never has been, even on days that haven’t followed more than a week of speaking with hardly anyone, but at the moment he wishes he were, that he could be as comfortable in his own skin as Duncan looks lounging in the not terribly comfortable pub chair across from him. 

“Your song was lovely,” Duncan says, still trying to draw him out, and James is grateful that Duncan hasn’t given up on him yet.

“I only started it a week ago, it’s not quite finished. Hadn’t planned to write a song…” James shrugs, takes a sip of his pint and looks around the pub. “Don’t know what came over me, really. This is very out of character.”

Duncan smiles. “What, playing at open mic nights or flirting with strangers?”

“Both,” James says.

“Your playing’s a damn sight better than your flirting.”

“Thanks.” James can’t help but return Duncan’s smile. He gestures to their nearly empty pints. “Another.”

“Aye, now you’re getting the hang of it.” Duncan flashes James the same gorgeous smile he was using on the woman at the bar. It’s quite something to be on the receiving end of it. 

“You’re at the cottage out by Levenwick,” Duncan says when James returns with two more pints. It’s not a question. James narrows his eyes at him. Duncan laughs. “I know someone else who gives me that look. It’s nothing sinister. Hunter Enterprises Holiday Lets.” He points at his own chest. “That’s me. It’s a small island.”

James laughs and takes a sip of his pint. “I’m beginning to realise how small.” 

They chat and they drink. Duncan fills in what would otherwise be awkward silences with a running commentary on the other patrons as he sprawls across the wooden pub chair. He is funny in an unpretentious self-deprecating way, regaling James with stories of island life and his own and other people’s past mishaps. His silver hair looks soft in the dim pub light and like it would be nice to run his fingers through. The tilt of his smile makes James think that he would be amenable. 

Duncan is good company. James isn’t sure he can say the same for himself but Duncan doesn’t seem to mind. The evening passes comfortably to the backdrop of more open mic performers. Before James knows it, it’s last orders and Duncan is still sitting across the table from him. They step out into the street together, the wind greeting them with a particularly chilly gust, the farewells of the other patrons echoing off the stone buildings as they scatter into the night. 

James turns for the bus stop, then back to Duncan. “Thanks for a lovely evening,” he says. It sounds like a brush-off. He doesn’t intend it to be a brush-off. 

Duncan looks up at him, head tilted to the side as if he’s calculating something. “Fancy a lift? It can be a long wait for the bus this time of night.”

James doesn’t mind waiting, he has no agenda besides more walking tomorrow, it doesn’t matter how late he gets to the cottage. But he wouldn’t mind spending a bit more time with Duncan.

“No need to go out of your way,” James says instead of the, _yes_ , he wants to say. 

“Away, ‘s no trouble.” Duncan flashes James a smile that he would have a hard time resisting even if he wanted to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve gone back and forth multiple times over whether this should be rated mature or explicit. I think it’s right on the line between the two, but after my final read-through of this chapter I've settled on mature and changed the rating.

Duncan drives slowly and carefully, both hands on the wheel. He is probably over the limit and they should both be taking the bus, but James doesn’t say anything. He watches the dark landscape pass by through the windscreen; the headlights illuminating swathes of road and stone wall and road again as they round a bend, the occasional splash of moonlight sparkling off the sea through a break in the clouds, the hills dark, charcoal smudges against the sky. As Duncan pulls up in front of the cottage, the clouds part, bathing the landscape in silvery moonlight for a moment. 

“Nightcap?” James asks before he can think better of it. 

“I thought you’d never ask,” Duncan says, sly smile visible in the glow of the dashboard lights. He switches off the engine. 

Just inside the door, James takes off his boots, a habit he’s cultivated to keep clumps of peat out of the cottage. He props his guitar up in the corner behind the sofa, then ducks into the kitchen to find the now half-full bottle of whisky he bought on his first shopping trip. 

When James returns to the sitting room, Duncan has removed his boots and is crouched in front of the peat burner coaxing the fire back to life. James sets the bottle and two glasses on the coffee table and pours, passing a glass to Duncan when he moves away from the stove. Duncan brushes his hands off on his jeans-clad thighs and takes the glass. 

“Cheers,” Duncan says. 

“Cheers.” James raises his glass. They both drink and settle in on the sofa. 

Somewhere between the pub and the drive and now, the pints he consumed have worn off and the familiar edge of awkwardness—so far mostly absent with Duncan—is beginning to creep in. James doesn’t know what came over him, inviting Duncan in. Well, no, he does. But he’s surprised at himself for having followed through. Twice in one night even. This is different to booking a last-minute holiday cottage and not deciding where he’s going to walk each day until he’s standing at the bus shelter in the morning. There is a part of him which still believes that this is something he shouldn’t have, that he doesn’t deserve it.

But it’s been a long time since he’s had such easy conversation with someone he just met, and the only other person in his adult life he’s had that with is now far out of reach. Duncan is attractive and funny and, strangely, seems to not mind James’ company. James wants to see where this goes even though he’s not quite sure how to steer it in the direction he’d like. 

He could say, _I like your smile, I want to kiss you_. The evidence suggests that Duncan would welcome it. He could lean across the space between them and kiss Duncan without warning. He could make any sort of move beyond inviting Duncan in and pouring him a drink. 

Duncan shifts on the cushion next to James, draping his right arm along the back of the sofa behind James’ head. The fire flickers its orange glow through the glass door in the stove, growing brighter and warmer with each passing minute, turning Duncan’s silver hair golden. The wind whistles around the corners of the cottage, making the fire and Duncan’s presence next to him feel rather intimate. It is undoubtedly, though accidentally, romantic. James takes a large sip of his whisky. 

“Penny for them,” Duncan says, and James realises he hasn’t said anything besides, _cheers_ , since they entered the cottage. “Putting the world to rights all on your own are you?”

James huffs out an almost-laugh. Duncan is smiling at him; that same warm, inviting smile from the pub, it warms James as much as the whisky and the growing heat of the peat burner. 

“Not exactly.” James reaches for the bottle and tops up their glasses. When he leans back again, he settles in a little closer to Duncan. “I don’t usually do this.” 

Duncan sips his whisky and gives James a contemplative look. “So you’ve said. Seem to be doing all right from here.” 

“First time for everything,” James says. 

Duncan’s smile widens, then fades at a buzzing from his pocket. He looks down but doesn’t make any move to pull out his mobile. It buzzes again. 

“Do you need to—” James gestures to the outline of Duncan’s phone against his thigh. It buzzes a third time.

“Nah.” Duncan waves the hand holding his glass dismissively. Then it rings. Duncan sighs and puts his glass down on the coffee table, doing a little shimmy to pull out his phone without getting up. James finds himself watching the movement of Duncan’s hips, the way his jeans pull tight across his thighs. 

Duncan grimaces at the screen, then stands. “Sorry,” he says, with a look of regret. “Better take this.” He ducks around the corner into the kitchen. “Jimmy. What? I’m—”

James gets up to add more peat to the burner, trying not to overhear, but the cottage is small and Duncan hasn’t shut the door between the kitchen and sitting room. 

“No, no. Nothing like that,” Duncan says from the kitchen. A pause. “Aye, well. Up to no good I’m sure, but you didn’t ring me for this.” Another pause. “Is she? Aye, okay. Yeah. No, no. I’ll come with.”

“My daughter,” Duncan says when he returns, waving his mobile in explanation before stuffing it in his pocket and retaking his seat on the sofa. “Or rather my— Her dad, about our daughter.”

“Your daughter.” James tries not to sound too disappointed. 

“Aye. Yeah. She’s just— She’s at uni in Glasgow. She’s flying up on Tuesday, didn’t say why though.” 

“And her dad—?” James can feel the possibilities of the evening slipping away.

“Oh. It’s not like that.” Duncan laughs, but there’s a sadness to it, his eyes have lost a bit of their sparkle. “Jimmy’s not—” He looks a bit unsure for the first time since James met him, toying with something in the pocket of his jeans. He picks up his whisky. 

“Cassie was just a wee thing when my ex and I split up, and then when she and Jimmy got together he raised Cas as his own. He’s a good man. He’s done better by her than I ever could have. Still does. When Fran passed they moved back to Shetland and—” Duncan shrugs. “Now we co-parent, but we’re not—” He drains his glass. The wistful look on his face is painfully familiar. “I’m grateful to be part of her life again after I missed so much. And Jimmy, well— I’m sure he only puts up with me for Cassie’s sake, but you take what you can get, aye?”

“Yeah.” James lets out a small, sad sigh of a laugh and finishes his drink. “If only what you can get ever felt like enough.” He refills both their glasses and settles onto the sofa again, sliding a bit closer to Duncan. He tries not to think too much about what he’s almost admitted.

“Aye,” Duncan sighs, leaning toward James and resting his arm along the back of the sofa again.

The fire is roaring now, heat pouring off the small stove. It’s beginning to get a bit too warm with his jumper and the whisky and Duncan’s presence close at his side, but James doesn’t move away. He doesn’t want to disturb this quiet understanding they seem to have found. The silence that’s settled around them is comfortable, companionable, safe in a way that it shouldn’t be given that they’ve only known each other for a few short hours; as if alluding to feelings they both have for other people has forged a connection between them. The fire pops and crackles, the wind gusts against the side of the cottage, their arms brush as they sip their drinks. 

“What’s yours called?” Duncan asks after a minute.

“Robbie,” James says, quiet, like a prayer. He hasn’t said the name out loud since he arrived in Shetland. He’s missed the shape of it on his tongue. “He was my boss. He’s retired now. Off on holiday to New Zealand for six months.” James sighs. “With his girlfriend.” 

“Ah.” Duncan gives James a sympathetic look. 

“Laura— she’s great, actually. I’d worked with her too before I met Robbie. Which almost makes it worse. They’re good together. I’m happy for them and they deserve it, I’m just…” James sighs and lets the sentence trail off to nothingness.

“Not happy yourself?”

“Yeah.” James sighs again, keeping his eyes on the flickering fire. James slouches into the cushions and tilts his head back until he feels Duncan’s fingers brush his hair. “I’m working on it though. Or trying to anyway.”

“That’s who your song was about?” Duncan asks, his hand coming to rest on the back of James’ head. 

“Yep,” James says, popping the p and pressing his head into Duncan’s touch. 

Duncan sighs. “A pair of sad sacks aren’t we?” 

James raises his glass. “I’ll drink to that.” 

A comfortable silence settles around them again. James slouches down further into the cushions, Duncan runs his fingers idly through James’ hair.

“So, Robbie was your boss,” Duncan says after a bit, his fingers straying across James’ temple and around the shell of his ear. 

“Yeah,” James sighs. “I was his sergeant for seven years until I finally went for inspector myself.” James turns his head toward Duncan to see if this new information will be the end of this. 

“Inspector.” Duncan’s tone is incredulous. “As in detective?”

James nods. 

Duncan laughs, almost spilling his drink. 

“Is that going to be a problem?” James asks, feeling apprehensive at Duncan’s continued chuckling.

“No, no,” Duncan laughs again, his fingers flex against James’ scalp. “Jimmy, he’s a detective.” 

James lets out a startled laugh of his own. “What are the odds?”

“Guess I’ve got a thing for DIs called James,” Duncan says, his hand scratching pleasantly through the short hair at the base of James’ skull. 

“And I’ve got a thing for older men who are unavailable.”

“I’m not unavailable,” Duncan says, his voice low and full of promise. 

Duncan leans closer, his thumb tracing James’ jaw. James shivers and turns his head. He lets out a quiet groan as Duncan’s thumb brushes the corner of his mouth. Duncan takes James’ whisky glass from his unresisting hand, placing it on the side table next to his own glass, then leans in, pressing their lips together. 

Duncan’s lips are soft. He tastes of whisky. His beard is appealingly rough against James’ cheek. James groans and presses forward, deepening the kiss and Duncan pulls him in, running his tongue along James’ bottom lip, nipping at it with his teeth. James lets out a sound that is half moan, half gasp and then they are properly snogging, scrabbling at each other’s clothing, getting in each other’s way as they try to undress each other without breaking the kiss. Duncan’s mouth on James’ mouth, on his neck, on his jaw, his hands pushing up James’ jumper as he nips at the sensitive spot behind his ear. It’s as if something has been released inside him and James wants. He wants. He wants more. James pushes Duncan back against the arm of the sofa, fumbling at his shirt buttons as he tries to get his mouth on every bit of Duncan’s skin he can reach. 

They make it to the bedroom somehow, pulling at each other’s clothes, snogging against the wall and the doorframe, James’ jumper and t-shirt discarded along the way.

“You’re too bloody tall,” Duncan says, as he half drags, half pushes James through the bedroom door, both of them eager and wanting. James can feel the hard line of Duncan’s cock when he presses up against him. Duncan twists them around, pushing James backward until the back of his knees hit the bed and James overbalances, sitting down with a huff. “Better,” Duncan smirks down at him, steps forward between James’ spread legs, and pulls him into a searing kiss. 

“God,” James moans, a heady extra jolt of arousal coursing through him as he tilts his head up to kiss Duncan. He pushes Duncan’s already unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders, tugging at the t-shirt underneath until Duncan pulls it over his head and drops it to the floor behind him, revealing pale skin and silver chest hair and James doesn’t resist the impulse to take one perfect pink nipple into his mouth. Duncan groans and tilts his head back and James kisses along the line of his throat as Duncan slides his hands down James’ stomach, and lower, unbuttoning his jeans. 

When Duncan palms James’ cock through the fabric of his pants James almost loses the plot completely. He wishes he’d had a little less to drink so he’d remember this better, but if he’d had any less they probably wouldn’t be here at all and, _fuck_ , he really wants to be here.

Duncan pushes lightly at James’ naked chest and James falls back onto the bed, Duncan smirking down at him with heat and promise. He tugs at James’ jeans and James lifts his hips, Duncan pulling his jeans and pants off. He stops for a moment, gazing down at James with obvious appreciation. James is naked and hard and a man he hardly knows is studying him with frank appraisal. He should feel awkward, exposed, unsettled, but he feels nothing but wanted. It’s intoxicating. Then Duncan wraps his fingers around James’ cock and, _God_. 

James lets out a gasp, bucking up into Duncan’s hand. It’s been years since anyone else has touched him like this. It’s overwhelming, decadent, perfect; the warmth of Duncan’s hand, the warmth of his smile, the way he leans down to kiss James, hot and messy, his hand still working James’ cock, pulling moans out of him with every stroke.

He’s not going to last and he hasn’t even properly got his hands on Duncan yet. 

“Wait,” James gasps, breathless, and Duncan stops immediately, releasing James’ cock, a look of concern crossing his face. James half sits up, propping himself on his elbows. “No, not— It’s been a while,” he confesses. “I’m afraid I won’t—”

“Ah.” Duncan gives him a crooked smile and takes hold of James again, more gently this time; a light, teasing touch. 

James sits up and kisses that smile, that gorgeous smile; so similar to but so much more than the smile that charmed James and the rest of the pub during the open mic night, revelling in the feeling of it against his lips. He pulls Duncan closer, twisting his body sideways onto the bed until he has the leverage to push Duncan onto his back.

Duncan laughs and James pulls Duncan’s jeans down. He scoots up the bed, shimmying out of his jeans as he goes and leans against the pillows, smirking up at James like he knows exactly how good he looks, and exactly how much James wants to get his hands on him; all compact muscle and open smile. 

James wants this in a way he usually never lets himself. It is too dangerous, too all-consuming, too likely to pull him in and never let him go. But this is safe, this is finite, James lives hundreds of miles away, he will never see Duncan again. He’s going to have the thing he wants when it’s right in front of him and he’s not going to worry about the consequences. Right now, in this moment, he can indulge his desires and what he desires is to lick Duncan from his collarbone to the tantalising trail of silver hair leading to the equally tantalising bulge in his grey boxer briefs. So he does, savouring every inch of him and every sound Duncan makes. 

“Go on then,” Duncan gasps when James stops just above his navel. 

He mouths at Duncan’s cock through his pants, eliciting a delicious moan from Duncan, then pulls them down and off. The first taste is bliss; the weight of Duncan’s cock on his tongue, the scent of him, the little gasps of pleasure that escape Duncan’s lips as James licks across the head and closes his lips around him, the gentle touch of Duncan’s hand on the crown of his head encouraging him. He lets the taste and smell and sounds of Duncan’s pleasure wash over him, through him, his own arousal almost secondary to the sounds Duncan is making as he learns, by the particular tenor of his moans, what Duncan likes best, until Duncan gasps, “ _Fuck_. Get up here.” 

James releases Duncan’s cock, meets his eyes and licks his lips, and Duncan reaches forward and pulls James up into a messy kiss, warm skin against warm skin as James settles on top of him. Their cocks slide together as the kiss turns downright filthy. Duncan moans and bucks up hard, rolling James onto his back, settling between James’ legs and grinding down against him.

“Fuck, _please_ ,” James moans. 

Duncan gives him a delicious, mischievous smirk and rolls his hips forward again. James moans and spreads his legs wider, tilts his hips so their cocks line up just right with Duncan’s next thrust. 

“You gorgeous thing,” Duncan murmurs, biting at James’ shoulder, rocking his hips down onto him. 

James wants to respond in kind but he has no words left, he had hardly any to begin with. Duncan braces himself against the mattress with one hand by James’ shoulder, spits in the palm of his other hand, and takes hold of both their cocks. James gasps, throwing his head back, hips arching up off the bed as Duncan strokes in time to their thrusts. They find a rhythm, Duncan’s hand and his thrusts and James’ hips lifting to meet him. Their bodies moving together, their breath coming in waves, like their thrusts, like the wind buffeting against the side of the cottage, like the sea.

If neither of them moans each other’s names when they come, well, James certainly isn’t going to mention it. 

In the afterglow, in the after of the afterglow, lying on their backs side by side as their breathing begins to even out, reality begins to sink in. James glances at Duncan, envies him the breezy satisfied smile on his face that James can’t quite manage to match. 

Duncan gives him a knowing look and rolls over to face James. “Just because we’re in love with people we can’t have is no reason we should be denied our basic human rights.”

That startles a laugh out of James. “You think sex is a basic human right?”

Duncan gives him a wry smile, nodding against the pillow. “Aye, I do.” 

“I never said I was in love with Robbie,” James counters. 

“Deny it all you want,” Duncan says. “I know a fellow traveller when I see one.”

James sighs. He is in love with Robbie, of course. He can hardly remember a time when he wasn’t, but he’s never gone so far as to admit it so plainly outside his own head. What good would that do anyone? “I suppose moments of happiness are all we can realistically hope for,” he says, instead of saying out loud the thing that Duncan already knows. 

“Mmm,” Duncan sighs and slides his hand across James’ chest, resting his head on his shoulder, “Would be nice if they weren’t so fleeting.” 

James sighs in turn and disentangles himself from Duncan. A look of apprehension crosses Duncan’s face as James leaves the room. In the bathroom, James cleans himself up and scrutinises his face in the mirror above the tiny sink. He looks no different than he had that morning when he shaved, except for the addition of a bit of beard burn. Maybe this is okay. Maybe he doesn’t need to keep holding onto the guilt he’s been carrying around with him. He wanted to have sex with Duncan, Duncan wanted to have sex with him. Does it matter that they both wanted to be having sex with other people? Especially when that’s not going to happen for either of them. 

He grabs a flannel from next to the sink and the now nearly empty bottle of whisky from the coffee table. Duncan looks relieved when James offers him the flannel and crawls into bed.

“Thought I was about to get kicked out,” Duncan says, cleaning himself up and dropping the flannel on the floor. 

James grabs for the duvet, bunched around their feet, pulls it up around them, and leans against the headboard. He takes a swig from the bottle and passes it to Duncan. 

“I did consider it,” James says.

Duncan takes a swig. “I appreciate the reprieve. I don’t fancy kipping in the Rover.” Duncan hands James the bottle. “I could move to the sofa, though.”

“Only if you want to.”

“Not really.”

“Good.” James takes a sip of whisky and passes the bottle back again. 

And maybe that’s the crux of it, nothing physical needs to change, it’s his head that needs sorting out. That is, essentially, what this entire trip has been about, trying to appreciate these small moments of happiness while he’s got them, trying to remind himself that his ability to feel joy isn’t centred only on one person.

They talk until the sky begins to brighten with the dawn, passing the bottle back and forth until there’s nothing left. It is somehow safe in the comfortable intimacy of the bed to share things with Duncan that he’s never told anyone. Maybe it’s nothing but post-orgasmic hormones and whisky but James decides it doesn’t matter, telling Duncan these things, and listening to Duncan in turn, is freeing, as if by admitting these things out loud he is lifting a curse from himself. 

Maybe it’s not that he needs a place to lay down the burden that is his love for Robbie, maybe he only needs to learn to carry it differently, to shift the weight around until it settles comfortably. He was never able to see how to do that before, but somehow chatting to Duncan into the small hours, he thinks he can begin to see a way. They have forged a connection in a few short hours that is deeper than pints and whisky and a one night stand ought to precipitate. It won’t last, James is sure, but he’s glad to have had it while he does. 

When he wakes the next morning, later than he’s slept any day since arriving in Shetland, and somehow only very slightly hungover, James is unsurprised to find Duncan gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line about sex being a basic human right is shamelessly stolen from High Fidelity.


	3. Chapter 3

James passes his second week in Shetland much the same as the first. As he walks, his old friend the wind pushes him along to the next vista or nudges him to slow down and appreciate where he’s standing. And he does, he finds, appreciate every bit of it even more now than he had before. 

He visits bronze age settlements and ruined twelfth-century churches, contemplates what it must have been like to live in Shetland 900 years ago or 4000, how much of the landscape has remained largely unchanged for all that time. Walking across the hills and along coastal paths, in places where there is hardly any sign of human habitation, it almost feels as if he’s walking backwards through time. There are moments when the rest of his life feels far away and almost unimaginable, as if this is everything it ever has been and all it ever should be.

He encounters seals staking out spots on beaches as their own in a vaguely threatening manner, altering his walking plans for the day; sandpipers flitting back and forth at the edge of the waves, taunting the sea; countless seabirds swooping and soaring on the wind overhead; sheep and cows and ponies, most of them indifferent to his presence. He continues to avoid other humans almost entirely. James’ feet carry him across peat and stone and sand, along sheep tracks and designated walking paths, sure-footed over the now familiar changes in terrain. He spends days with nothing but the wind and the landscape and his thoughts. 

In this new equilibrium, this tentative peace he’s found with his place in the world, he lets himself think of Robbie on the other side of the world in a different unfamiliar landscape that must, by now, be more familiar to him than Shetland is to James. He hopes that Robbie is happy, that he is content, that his half-expressed worries about who he would be without the job have been soothed, and James finds that those thoughts aren’t accompanied by the same pangs of longing they once were. Something has shifted; he can now look at the picture of Robbie in his head without the ache in his heart growing sharper, without the weight pulling him down. 

He thinks of Duncan; his smile, his hands, the way his presence was at once calming and exciting, the warmth of his touch and the way it made James’ skin sing with pleasure. But mostly he thinks of Duncan’s words, uttered in the not-quite-dark of pre-dawn, as they sat together naked under the duvet and finished off the bottle of whisky. 

_Far be it for me to say I know anything at all,_ Duncan had said, handing the bottle to James. _But you could do with a bit of lightening up._

 _Thanks_ , James said coolly, taking a swig.

 _No, no_. Duncan rested his hand on James’ bare chest, looking him in the eye. _Didn’t mean it like that. Everyone deserves to be able to let shite go. Have a wee bit of fun._

James shrugged. 

_I’m serious, man. You can’t hold all that in all the time, it’ll tear you apart. Believe me._ Duncan’s eyes, if not his half-joking tone, said he knew exactly what he was talking about. 

James had let out a small huff of a laugh and chalked the feeling of off-kilter relief at the mere idea of letting anything go up to post-sex endorphins and whisky. Letting go of anything, ever, has never been an option for him, there’s always been too much to lose. If he were to say out loud everything he’s thinking and feeling at any given moment, let the chaotic spiral of his thoughts out into the world, how would he bottle them up again? Better to keep the lid on everything than to risk not being able to regain control.

Except he’d done exactly that with Duncan. Told Duncan more basic truths about himself in one night than he’s told any one person in his life. Even Robbie. Especially Robbie. Because why would Robbie Lewis, of all people, have any interest in maintaining a friendship with James if he knew the breadth of James’ feelings? If he knew about the torch burning in James’ heart?

Yet, over the years, when the ghosts of James’ past reared their ugly heads and his control slipped, Robbie had always been kind, occasionally angry at James’ actions, but at base level seeking to understand despite his clear bafflement at James’ behaviour. Robbie never laughed at him, he never belittled him, he never tried to push James to be something he’s not. He accepted James; his awkward prickliness and insecurity and admittedly, at times, woefully lacking sense of self-preservation.

James has spent years carrying his love for Robbie like a burden, holding it close and hidden to protect himself, to keep from passing that burden on to Robbie. But what if he hasn’t been protecting himself so much as putting up a barrier that keeps out the rest of the world? Blocking his view of any other possibilities. 

When the revelation comes, James is picking his way down a narrow track that leads from the cliff edge to the beach below; the wind tugging at his jacket, clouds and seabirds rolling by overhead. It’s not a designated walking path but it’s well-used. As he reaches the sand, the clouds part and the wind lets up for a moment. 

James stops short in the middle of the path. He squints into the sun. 

It is absurd to have this revelation here, now, so far away from everything. But once he’s had the thought, it’s so obvious he could kick himself for not seeing it sooner. There it is, the piece of evidence that slots the loose ends of a case together into one irrefutable conclusion. 

Robbie knows. 

Robbie knows how James feels about him. 

He’s known for a while now. For years even.

“Huh,” James says out loud to the birds and the sea as the wind picks up again, clouds hiding the sun. He walks onto the beach, sits down on a piece of driftwood and lights a cigarette. He inhales and tries to take it all in, testing the boundaries of this newfound information. 

The idea that Robbie has known how James feels for years is terrifying and yet at the same time, it is a relief. If Robbie knows and he’s continued to work with James, even encouraging him not to resign on more than one occasion, continued to be friends with him in a way that inspectors and sergeants usually aren’t… James isn’t sure what to make of it. But the more he thinks back over memories that span years, the more clearly he can see the thread twining through every interaction they’ve ever had, even in the early days when James was so startled by the depths of his own feelings he didn’t hide them as well as he should have.

James smokes and watches the light change as clouds blow past and the wind whips the sea into a froth. He can sympathise. 

“Robbie knows,” he says to the sky, the sea, the sand, the cliffs behind him. He opens his arms wide and lets the wind wash over him. “Robbie Lewis knows I’m in love with him.” Even after such a statement, the landscape remains unchanged. James stubs out his cigarette, pockets it, and lights another.

The day before Robbie and Laura left for New Zealand, James had, in Laura’s words, talked Robbie round from his sudden bout of cold feet. James had convinced Robbie to overcome his doubts and go, encouraged Robbie to push through his fear and do the thing his heart desired. To do the thing that James desperately wished he could do himself—show the person he loves that he loves them, not miss the opportunity in front of him—all the while watching his own opportunity slip away. No matter how much he hadn’t wanted Robbie to go, he couldn’t watch Robbie let fear keep him from happiness the way James has for so much of his life.

But the way Robbie had looked at him when James asked if Robbie loved Laura; a flash of disappointment amidst the annoyance at James having broached the subject. That same shade of disappointment crossed Robbie’s face at the airport when James managed to get out, _you’ll be missed_ , just before Robbie walked away. The statement both a hair’s breadth from revealing too much and wholly inadequate in the face of six months without Robbie. That flicker of disappointment had almost made it seem as if Robbie had known how close James had come to saying something more, like he’d been hoping James would. 

Robbie had smiled up at him, that full youthful smile of his and James had looked away. It was almost too overwhelming to contemplate how much he was going to miss those rare flashes of Robbie’s genuine joy directed at him. Robbie seemed to mean it when he said that James deserved to have fun as well. Like he truly did care about James, like he wished him happiness. 

Someone should take James’ warrant card away for failing to see something that’s been staring him in the face for years. Robbie knows how James feels about him and yet he never brought it up, he never pushed, and he wouldn’t. He won’t. He’s been leaving it up to James to tell him if he wants to, and James never has. He’d never even considered it as an option.

When James stands and starts walking again, the sun is dipping low to the west, just the barest hint of orange peeking through the clouds. A new song begins to form, disparate melodies changing and combining as he walks, solidifying into something more than its parts as the light fades and he makes his way to the road and then home to the cottage. The tune follows the rhythms of the sea and the wind and his feet as he walks, with a looping melody twining through it, melancholy at first, then opening and rising and hopeful at the end.

* * *

James’ penultimate day in Shetland dawns sunny and bright, the sun sparkling off the puddles left by last night’s rain, the wind playful, blowing white puffy clouds across the bright blue sky. The sun is strong enough to subdue the chill and allow him to walk with his jacket unzipped. He savours his last moments of solitary bliss and the landscape around him, not returning to the cottage until after the sun has dipped below the horizon in a spectacular show of a sunset. It almost feels like the island is giving him a send-off. 

He showers, makes himself a final Shetland dinner, and eats on the sofa. After he’s eaten, he plays the new song through a few times, adding the finishing touches today’s walk has inspired, revelling in the warmth of the peat burner and the sense of peace he’s found here. At the beginning of his holiday, he’d imagined that when he reached the end leaving would be a disappointment, but he finds he is ready to move on. The island has given him what he needed even though he didn’t know he needed it at the time. He’s looking forward to the ferry ride and the tiny windowless cabin and waking up in Aberdeen. Maybe he’ll visit the churches he saw from the ferry deck on the way out, take a later train to Oxford. 

When he’s settled into bed, James grabs his mobile from its spot on the bedside table. The few times he’s checked it there have been nothing but ignorable work emails, but today, of all days, there is a new email in his personal account. From Robbie. He considers not reading it, waiting until he’s on the ferry or in Oxford again, lest it disrupt the sense of tranquillity he’s finally found. But curiosity wins out in the end. He only manages to lie in the dark for five minutes before he picks up his phone again.

_James,_

_I hope all is well with you. I meant to sort this out before we left, but the time was never quite right and then we were here and there’s been an awful lot going on for a holiday. I can’t believe it’s been more than two months already since I left._

_It feels a bit awkward to ask you this now, but Laura says that going ahead and asking is the way forward. And that if I don’t do it she will. I’m sure you’ve got plenty going on yourself, but I’m going to guess that, as usual, you haven’t used any of your annual leave._

_Anyroad, how would you like a holiday in New Zealand? We’d love to see you. I would love to see you. Laura is reading over my shoulder and says ‘we’ is a cop-out and that she’s not the one who’s been moping. I wouldn’t call it moping, but I have missed you. It’s not been the same going to pubs without you around._

_It’s lovely here, the landscape is truly unbelievable. Laura’s nephew took us to some of the locations where they filmed The Lord of the Rings, which are even more breathtaking in person, and I couldn’t help but think of you and your no more flipping elves the whole time. You should really see it._

_There’s a guest room in the house we’re renting with a bed big enough for your long legs. It’s spring here now, if you plan it right you’ll be able to trade the dreariest part of Oxford winter for New Zealand summer. Maybe we can do a skype call to talk about logistics? Or I suppose, if you can’t make it down here, it would be nice to see your face even if it’s only on a screen._

_Think it over and let me know what you decide._

_Best,_  
_Robbie_

James reads it again. And then a third time. He can hear Robbie’s voice in his head as he does, see his smile at the mention of James’ comment about Tolkien’s elves from years ago. Robbie wants him to visit. Robbie misses him. Robbie thinks it would be nice to see James’ face. If Robbie knows how James feels about him—a fact that James is now as sure about as he is about the colour of Robbie’s eyes—and he still wants James to visit… James drops his phone on the pillow beside him and stares up at the ceiling. 

He doesn’t know if Robbie loves him, at least not in the same way James loves Robbie. The possibility seems remote, but then the idea that Robbie could know how James feels and still want to be friends had seemed impossibly out of reach two weeks ago. It doesn’t matter if Robbie loves James the same way James loves him. Robbie knows and he still misses James and wants him to visit. That is enough. 

Instead of returning to Oxford, he could go to New Zealand. In a little more than a day’s time he could be sitting across a pub table from Robbie Lewis on the other side of the world. 

He picks up his mobile again. He begins to calculate how much leave he has left but then decides he doesn’t care. He finds a flight from Lerwick to London and then a separate flight to New Zealand. He doesn’t buy a return ticket. He doesn’t think about how much less expensive the flight would be if he planned this for a month from now. He is a single man with very few expenses who rarely takes holidays. He can have this. He wants this and he can have it. His passport is in his rucksack, stuffed in there on a whim before leaving Oxford, even though he’d had no intention of leaving the country, as if somehow in the back of his mind he knew this was a possibility.

A giddy joy bubbles up in him when he receives the final flight confirmation. This is completely irresponsible, totally unlike him, and yet it feels so right. 

If CS Moody decides that James extending his leave without notice is beyond the pale, if James doesn’t have a job when he returns to Oxford, then so be it. Maybe this will be the time he finally resigns. 

James types out innumerable replies to Robbie’s email—all variations on the theme of far too much or not nearly enough—before he deletes them all and settles on: 

_Dear Robbie,_

_I’d like that very much. I’ll let you know when I land._

_James_

It’s an email, not a letter in an Austen novel, but James can’t resist the use of the endearment. He feels at once reckless and hopeful at the idea that Robbie will know he means it.

* * *

On his final morning in Shetland, James wakes with the sun and takes one last short walk out the front door of the cottage down toward the cliffs that can be seen from the sitting room window. The clouds are low, the sky the same grey as the jumper he bought on his second day, the wind a chorus singing him along the trail, his steps light with anticipation.

Remarkably, he doesn’t regret his rash decision of the night before. He is excited and a bit in awe of himself for having done such a thing. He had hoped this trip would be a turning point, but as much as he’d wanted it to be, he hadn’t fully believed anything would change. Yet here he is, feeling as if he’s stepped through a portal into someone else’s life where the future is unknown but not terrifying.

On the bus to the airport, James watches the landscape pass by in much the same way he had on his way from the ferry that first day. He sends a silent thank you to Shetland for everything it’s given him.

As he nears his gate, James spots an unexpected but familiar silver-haired figure across the concourse. For a moment he wonders how Duncan could have known his flight is today. Then he takes in the man standing next to him, slightly taller, short grey hair, wearing a peacoat with the buttons done up. They are standing shoulder to shoulder, watching passengers come through the gate door. Duncan isn’t here for him. 

A young woman with long, dark hair emerges from the gate and the other man bumps Duncan’s arm with his elbow. When she sees them, she gives them an enthusiastic wave and a huge grin, pulling them both into a hug when she reaches them. They both wrap their arms around her and each other, looking like they belong together. Looking like a family.

James hangs back, watching them while trying to not look like he’s watching them, but the young woman, who can only be Cassie, spots him over Duncan’s shoulder and says something into his ear. 

Both Jimmy and Duncan turn; Jimmy scowls, Duncan smiles. James considers pretending he didn’t see them and going to wait at the airport bar until he hears the boarding call for his flight, but Duncan is already walking toward him. 

When Duncan reaches him, he pulls James into a hug as if James is an old friend, not a near-stranger that he slept with once.

“What are you doing here?” Duncan says, looking rather pleased to see James.

“I could ask you the same thing.” 

Duncan shrugs. “Cassie changed her plans.”

“Me too.” James can’t help but grin. “I’m going to New Zealand.” 

“Are you now?” Duncan gives him a sly smile.

“Yeah,” James says. He must look like an idiot standing there in the middle of the airport with a huge grin on his face but he can’t help himself. “Robbie invited me to visit.”

Duncan grasps James’ arm, giving it a squeeze. “Good for you, man.” 

Before James can explain to Duncan that it’s not like that, Cassie and Jimmy come up behind him. Cassie gives James an appreciative once-over, threads her arm through Duncan’s, and asks, “Who’s this?”

Duncan gives her a look of undisguised affection then looks up at James. “Cassie, this is James. James, Cassie.”

“Nice to meet you.” James holds out his hand, but Cassie reaches up and hugs him much the way Duncan had moments ago, Jimmy scowling behind her—which is a not unattractive look on him. James wonders if that scowl is because his daughter is hugging a stranger or because Duncan did. 

“You’re not from Shetland,” Cassie says.

“Cass,” Jimmy admonishes. 

She turns to her dad. “Well, he’s not. I’d remember.” 

“Guilty as charged,” James says, keenly aware of the way Jimmy keeps looking between him and Duncan, clearly having already sussed out who and what James and Duncan are to each other. He doesn’t seem pleased. James holds out his hand to Jimmy. “James Hathaway.”

“Jimmy Perez.” Jimmy still looks sceptical. He takes James in, from the mud-caked boots on his feet to the rucksack in his hand and the guitar case over his shoulder. “Here on a walking holiday?”

“Yeah. Leaving today.” 

Jimmy nods as if this has settled something for him. “Hope you enjoyed it.”

“Very much so,” James says and Duncan smiles. 

“Good.” Jimmy gives James another once-over then turns to Cassie. “Let’s get your bags.” He walks off in the direction of the baggage claim signs. 

“Bye. Nice to meet you,” Cassie says as she waves over her shoulder and follows Jimmy.

“So,” James says, rocking on his heels. “That’s Jimmy.”

“Aye.” Duncan’s eyes follow Jimmy and Cassie with a look of obvious fondness. “He can be a surly bastard sometimes.”

“I’d say he’s jealous.” 

Duncan shakes his head, running his hand through his hair. “Jimmy, nah.”

“You should tell him,” James says. 

Duncan gives him a sceptical look. “Easy for you to say.”

“He looks at you like— the same way you look at him.”

“How’s that, then?”

“Like you’re in love with him.”

Duncan sighs, shooting a glance in the direction Jimmy and Cassie have gone. He stuffs his hands in his pockets then looks up at James. He looks cautiously hopeful and a bit afraid, not unlike how James feels about the flight he’s about to board and what lies at the end of the journey. 

“You think so?” Duncan asks. 

“I am a detective.”

Duncan snorts out a laugh. “Tell you what. I’ll tell Jimmy if you tell Robbie.”

“I think he already knows,” James says.

“Does he now?” Duncan looks intrigued.

“I had a bit of a revelation while I was out walking. It was something you said while we were in bed that made me realise it,” James looks down, cursing the blush he can feel creeping up his neck at the mention of having slept with Duncan. When they were actually in bed and naked it was fine, but standing in the middle of an airport… 

“Glad to be of service.” Duncan’s smile is teasing and affectionate. James barely resists the urge to kiss him.

“No, really. Thank you.” James meets Duncan’s eyes. “I know it’s a horrible cliche to go on holiday and have a fling with a local and feel like that’s changed you but, well, you helped me reach a new perspective and I’m grateful.”

“We aim to please here in Shetland. Make sure you note it in your review.” 

“I’ll do that,” James says, feeling both a bit giddy and suddenly awkward.

“Here, give me your mobile.” Duncan holds out his hand. James hands his phone over without thinking and watches as Duncan adds a new contact. “Let me know how it goes,” he says as he gives it back.

James lets himself be pulled into another hug as Jimmy and Cassie walk across the concourse with her bags in tow. “Go get your man,” Duncan says, with a lingering pat on James’ shoulder as he pulls away.

“You too,” James replies. Duncan flashes him another smile and a wink, then walks off to meet Jimmy and Cassie, the three of them laughing at something Cassie says as they head for the exit. 

James’ mobile, still in his hand, chimes. He expects it to be Duncan until he remembers he hasn’t given Duncan his number in return.

It’s Robbie, a text this time. _When you land?! You’re on a flight now?_

James can almost hear Robbie’s incredulous tone as he reads the text. _Waiting to board,_ he replies. _I’ll be in Christchurch in 30 hours._

Robbie replies with, _!_ , and then a minute later. _Didn’t expect you so soon. We’ll make up the spare room. Looking forward to seeing you!_

 _Me too_ , James replies, because the breadth of what he wants to say cannot be contained in a text. He’s got 30 hours to decide how to say it in person. James finds that he’s grinning down at his mobile. A woman on her way past to the gate flashes him a knowing smile. 

His time in Shetland was meant to be a way of getting Robbie out of his system. And it was, in a way. He’s found contentment here that he hasn’t felt since his early days in the seminary, before the doubts began to creep in. He knows now that he can exist without Robbie, that he can even be content. But also, it seems, he doesn’t have to. 

For years, he’s been carrying the weight of his love for Robbie like a burden that if dropped could shatter his entire world. But maybe it’s not a weight at all, maybe it’s like the wind, oppressive when fought against, but capable of lightening his load if he works with it.

A journey of eleven thousand miles starts with a single step. James walks toward the gate, letting his heart lead for maybe the first time in his life.

_____


End file.
